


Side Story: Cliftlands ~ Purple Haze

by CianTheMighty



Series: Octopath Traveler - Polyamory Series (CianTheMighty) [4]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Intimacy, Marijuana, Naked Cuddling, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nudity, Partial Nudity, Platonic Cuddling, Recreational Drug Use, Undressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22325446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CianTheMighty/pseuds/CianTheMighty
Summary: Alfyn makes an unusual discovery following a trip to Bolderfall with Therion. So begins the tale of the Purple Haze.
Relationships: Cyrus Albright/Alfyn Greengrass, Cyrus Albright/Olberic Eisenberg, Olberic Eisenberg/Alfyn Greengrass
Series: Octopath Traveler - Polyamory Series (CianTheMighty) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564309
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

Olberic had been whiling away the daylight hours sharing drinks with Cyrus at the tavern in Quarrycrest. Alfyn had gone to Bolderfall with Therion on an important delivery. Tressa was busy with a personal errand at Morlock's Manse and the women had all gone to assist her. Folk of all stripes came and went as the work shifts turned over; ale flowed like water, as the week was long and the workers had developed a powerful thirst. The cooking fires were lit as the daylight waned and the smell of roasting meats joined the scent of pipe tobacco and S'warkii sweetdough. Cyrus had developed a penchant for people watching in his travels, and he amused himself to no end making observations about the tavern patrons. Olberic nodded along with his theories, adding his own ideas as they came to him and draining mug after mug.

Therion returned shortly before nightfall... which is when Olberic first noticed the strange burden that Alfyn was carrying. His satchel was full to brusting with something that Olberic could not identify. He did not think much of it at first; he just assumed that Alfyn had procured some manner of medical ingredient, though it was admittedly a little strange that he would harvest so much.

Alfyn was plainly thrilled about the discovery, whatever it was. Cyrus picked up on that immediately. "Well?" He wondered, grinning broadly. "Are you going to tell us what you have there in your satchel?"

"Not just now," Therion warned, cutting across Alfyn and shooting Cyrus a dangerous look. His eyes scanned the tavern, cataloguing threats.

"Therion made me promise not to say anything until the tavern empties," Alfyn said bluntly. Therion glared at him, and Alfyn threw his hands up in resignation. True to his word, he kept his silence. And it was no small shame that he managed to do so, because Olberic had a lot of questions.

The hours passed slow as the last few patrons drifted out into the night. Tressa and the others returned from Morlock's Manse and decided to turn in early. Therion went with them; he never stayed to drink with the others.

"Would this not do for empty?" Cyrus wondered delicately.

"That'll do 'er," Alfyn agreed. Have either of you heard of something called mirthweed?"

Olberic frowned at the unfamiliar word. Cyrus' eyes widened in understanding. "Mirthweed, eh? Splendid! So that was the discovery you made? That would explain the peculiar funk emanating from your satchel."

Alfyn nodded sheepishly. "We stumbled on a whole grove of the stuff while we were in Bolderfall. Right in the middle of the courtyard at Ravus Manor, if you can believe that. Lady Ravus was in a state when we told her what it was."

Cyrus shook with delighted laughter. "How in the name of the gods could she mistake it for anything else? I thought I knew that scent from somewhere, but it took your confirming it for me to know for sure."

"Is it really that noticeable?" Alfyn wondered. "Shucks! Therion said he knew how to mask the scent..."

"It really isn't that dire," Cyrus assured him gently. "Therion acquitted himself rather admirably in that regard. I only noticed it because I am sitting so close and because I had foreknowledge of the plant."

"Can somebody please enlighten me?" Olberic asked. "You know of this plant, Professor?"

"Not as such," Cyrus replied. "I've never had any for myself, though I do know of the plant. I believe that my old colleague - Odette, you may remember her - was rather fond of the stuff. It was mentioned in a number of books relating to ancient studies and cultural anthropology, back at the academy. It was originally used as a sort of spiritual cleansing agent in shamanic rituals and the like. Warriors and women of the Woodlands tribes would request to be smudged by an elder as a token of good fortune for battles and significant life events. Some would do it to invoke the blessings of the gods for particular endeavors, much as we now pray to the Sacred Flame. Others would do it simply to brace themselves for the coming day."

"That is not what Alfyn harvested it for," Olberic said firmly. It was not a question.

Alfyn had a wide grin on his face as he answered the Professor, "I mean, it's real fascinating and all about those ancient warriors but that sure ain't what folk use mirthweed for nowadays."

Cyrus faltered. "Of course. Naturally, you picked it for its properties as an intoxicant. My apologies."

Alfyn blinked. "So you knew all along?"

Cyrus clicked his teeth in annoyance. "I did. I am not completely guileless... contrary to what the women in our group would have you believe. My primary interest has always been knowledge. Knowledge of all kinds, you understand. From the particulars of ancient rituals to the approximate street value of the mirthweed you have in your satchel." He stopped to wet his throat with a swallow of ale. "To answer your previous question, Sir Olberic, mirthweed is a popular recreational intoxicant not dissimilar to tobacco in the manner that it is enjoyed. I understand that there are those who do not approve of the drug, considering it unsuitable for civilized use, which I must assume is why Therion offered to mask the scent before they arrived."

"Come to think of it... do either of you smoke tobacco?" Alfyn wondered. "I ain't ever seen either of you huffin' on a pipe before."

"I have never smoked tobacco in my life," Olberic replied honestly, seeing no reason to lie to either of them.

"That is probably best for a man of your particular vocation," Cyrus replied, "... but your phrasing makes me wonder if there was ever any particular reason for that? Was it a conscious decision not to smoke, or some manner of policy that you adopted as a knight of your realm?"

"It's nothing so dramatic as that," Olberic replied. "My captain-commander would certainly never have approved but the truth is that I simply never got around to smoking tobacco. It was not in my field of interest, which was and still is primarily athletics. Smoking is bad for the lungs, Professor, which I'm sure that you and Alfyn already know."

"Indeed," Cyrus replied. "I've no talent for athletics myself, which is part of why I've avoided smoke in my personal endeavors."

"I would imagine that your peers at the academy have spent many a night sipping expensive brandy and smoking cigars."

"I was always loathe to attend such functions," Cyrus admitted. "I found the atmosphere decidedly unproductive; the conversation pallid and uninteresting, though the expensive brandy was always a treat. Headmaster Yvon, for all his faults, has marvelous taste in spirits."

"I never smoked tobacco myself," said Alfyn, nodding to Olberic. "I saw firsthand what too much smoke did to old Alek back in Clearbrook and I ain't too keen to visit that 'pon myself. I only got hooked on weed because of my buddy, Zeph. He got his hands on some when a traveling merchant came in through the Sunlands. He made me try it with him because he was too nervous to smoke it on his own."

"How monstrous. I've never known you to succumb to peer pressure."

"Aw, it ain't that bad, Professor. I got a lot of good memories of mirthweed. It ain't worth anything as a medicine but I knew it well enough to recognize it right away."

"Strange that Lady Ravus bade you be rid of the plant, given the street value of what you have there in your satchel. Money like that may rightly be seen as ill-gotten but it would still be enough to make a lot of problems go away."

"It surely would," Alfyn agreed. He picked up his tankard and took a long swallow, wetting his throat. "Fella called Heathecoate offered to get rid of it through his contacts in a place called Wellspring, but Lady Ravus turned him down flat. She said she didn't want her house getting tied up in any more shady business, leastwise until Therion does his thing and the Dragonstones are returned. Makes sense considering the way that people look at mirthweed nowadays..."

"How fortunate that you were interested," Olberic observed. "I'm not certain that I would have been so grateful."

"Aye," Alfyn replied, nodding. He seemed reluctant to meet their gazes for some reason, as if their conversation had taken a toll on him. "I picked enough so that we could all have some, if you fellas are so inclined..."

"You want us to smoke it with you?" Cyrus asked, clearly intrigued.

"Y-Yeah, is that all right?" Alfyn stammered, nodding sheepishly. "Aw, shucks. I should have figured. You fellas are way too straight laced and serious to get stoned on my account. Forget I ever asked."

He looked so downtrodden by their lackluster reactions that Olberic could not help but smile. "Do not give up on your goal so easily. It was a noble thing, in its own right. You have a generous spirit, Alfyn. I will consent to this."

"Naturally," Cyrus agreed, smiling pleasantly. "I have always been curious about the effects of the drug. Shall we retire to one of our rooms for the evening? It sounds as if young Tressa and the others are going to be occupied with the situation at Morlock's estate for some time yet. We are at liberty to smoke as we please and sleep off the effects through the following day. I could not think of a better environment to conduct this little experiment. I am looking forward to the experience, my friends."

"Are you sure?" Alfyn asked. "You fellas don't gotta bet stoned just to make me feel better about doing this."

"You went through the trouble of gathering all that herb," Olberic pointed out gently. "It would be a waste not to make something of that."

"Aw, shucks. All right, then."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you supposed to eat the whole brownie?" ~ Cyrus, probably.

Olberic retired to his room that night in the company of Alfyn and Cyrus. Alfyn became quiet, sheepish, and finally pensive as it became clear that Olberic and Cyrus really did mean to get stoned with him. Cyrus just nattered on about theories regarding the potency of the mirthweed and the colored history of the drug - he was in his element; as ever, attempting to expand the knowledge of the people that he associates with. Olberic had not been expecting to have any visitors, so his room was a disorderly pell-mell of scattered possessions. He figured that the others would not mind the mess, though he noticed with an uncomfortable lurch that he had left a pair of dirty smallclothes across the back of the armchair. He snatched those up in a hurry and hid them away before the others could see them.

"Please excuse the mess in here," Olberic grumbled, trying to keep a lid on his composure. "I was not expecting to have anyone in here before our departure."

"Aw, this ain't nothin'," Alfyn replied, waving a hand at him dismissively. There was something about his grin that was wonderfully infectious, and Olberic found himself smiling too.

"How you keep your accommodations is your concern, Sir Olberic," Cyrus replied magnanimously. "So long as you have things in functional order by the time we are to leave, you understand. It would not do to have the proprietor attend to your messes, in addition to their ordinary duties, else we find ourselves saddled with a far stiffer fee the next time we are in town."

"Tress would pitch a fit about that," Alfyn added wryly. "Still, I've seen worse. Heck, I'd wager the Professor's room is way messier than this."

Cyrus scoffed, clearly unimpressed by Alfyn's remark. "A well-ordered room is the sign of a well-ordered mind, my young friend."

"Oh." Alfyn blinked. "I suppose that just leaves you and me then, Old Bear. Messy rooms extraordinaire."

"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Olberic insisted, gesturing vaguely to the room around them. Cyrus seemed slightly nonplussed by the remark, and glanced around helplessly. He had been given modest, but perfectly comfortable lodgings at a heavily discounted price; a bargain courtesy of one Tressa Colzione. The room had a bed, a nightstand, and a high-backed armchair in the corner by the window. Olberic was perfectly satisfied with such, thus it did not occur to him immediately that Cyrus would have no idea where to sit.

Alfyn seemed to arrive at the same conclusion as Olberic, and he moved the armchair from the corner so that it was positioned quite close to the bed; close enough to put his feet up, if he wanted. "There you are, Professor Albright. I figure that'll do 'er while Olberic and I get to rollin'."

"Thank you, Alfyn," Cyrus replied, settling down on the armchair and making himself comfortable. "Forgive me if I do not understand the lingo, but... are you going to roll joints for us?"

"I figured I might as well," Alfyn replied. "I figured you would want the full experience, bein' the scholarly type, so I made sure to stop by the tobacconist on my way into town and pick us up some papers. I have a long-stem pipe we all could use if that's more your speed, but there's only one of those so we would all have to share it."

"I think that I would prefer the pipe," Cyrus replied. "No offense to either of you fellows if you would rather roll your own. While I am not at all experienced with smoking, I do enjoy the aesthetic of smoking with a long-stem pipe. Something about it just seems to gallant and sophisticated."

"I don't mind sharing the pipe," Olberic offered.

"I getcha," Alfyn replied, nodding thoughtfully. "I think that I'll roll a few anyway, just to give you fellas the full experience."

"Splendid!" Cyrus replied, rubbing his hands together. "Do you need any assistance with the preparation? I would love to see how this works."

"If either of you fellas have a knife I could use, that would be great..."

"I have one," Olberic replied. He had a small utility knife among his things. He retrieved that and handed it to Alfyn, who arranged himself at the foot of the bed with a pestle and mortar he'd brought from his room. Olberic removed his boots and sat on the bed with his back against the headboard, making himself comfortable. Cyrus watched with great interest as Alfyn clipped the buds from the stalks and ground them into something they could smoke.

"It needs to fit inside the pipe if we want to get any smoke out of it," Alfyn told Cyrus, evidently guessing at the direction of Cyrus' thoughts. "I figure I might do a whole lot of this tomorrow, just to make it easier to transport. It'd also help to make sure this lot don't cross-contaminate my other ingredients. I don't want to give anyone the spins in the middle of battle by mistake!"

"Allow me to assist you with that," Olberic offered.

"Aw, shucks. That's all right, Old Bear. I only got the one pestle and mortar anyway, and I ain't afraid to put my nose to the grindstone if it's for a good cause. Less of a good cause than healin', but still pretty darn good!"

"Have you prepared enough for us to start?" Cyrus wondered. "I am every so curious to see what this is like."

"Just about," Alfyn replied. "You can go ahead and get that pipe started if you want, Old Bear. I picked up that matchbox from the tobacconist, so we should want for flame."

"All right," Olberic replied. He picked up the long-stem pipe and filled it with mirthweed the way Alfyn had shown him. He took up the matchbox and flicked the striker, directing the flame into the bowl of the pipe, and inhaled a good lungful of smoke. Olberic had never been one to do things in half measures; a lifetime of athletics had given him a strong pair of lungs, and his storied experience on many battlefields had worn away any semblance of hesitation. Even an experienced smoker would have had trouble with the amount of smoke that Olberic tried to inhale. Almost as soon as his lungs were full, he was struck by the most terrible coughing fit.

"Gracious!" Cyrus exclaimed, his eyes wide and fearful as Olberic struggled to control his breathing. "I'd not thought it could be so difficult on a person. Are you all right, Sir Olberic?"

"I-I'm fine," Olberic breathed, suddenly very flushed and woozy.

"You'll want to be careful," Alfyn said wryly, regarding Olberic with nothing but sympathy. "That was a lot of smoke you had there."

"A-Aye," Olberic agreed, nodding. The discomfort of his spasms had subsided in favor of a peculiar buzzing sensation in his chest. He leaned over, handing the pipe and matchbox to Cyrus, and the feeling spread to his extremities. "I'm certainly feeling something," He said aloud to no one in particular.

"Already?" Cyrus wondered, his eyebrows shooting up as he fiddled with the striker. "Gracious. Perhaps struggling to breathe for a moment there caused you to inhale more of the smoke than you would have normally. Most curious."

"Coughing makes it hit harder," Alfyn confirmed, nodding. "You'll feel it even more since you took so much on your first try."

"Yes, well... down the hatch, then."

"Bon courage," Olberic said wryly, still a little woozy.

Cyrus fared a little better with his first attempt, having seen Olberic's spectacular gaffe with his own eyes and possessing a much better understanding of his own limits. He held it together for far longer, finally exhaling the smoke in a long stream that traced sinuous patters through the air, looping and overlapping in a pattern that Olberic did not recognize. A broad grin creased his face, and Olberic realized that Cyrus had done it on purpose.

"No fair," Alfyn pouted. "You can't use your magic to do smoke tricks. The rest of us normal folk ain't gonna keep up."

"You could do it too if you had a mind to practice," Cyrus replied. "Your natural affinity for ice magic would help you in that regard, more than you yet realize."

"I don't got that kinda fidelity with my ice," Alfyn replied, accepting the pipe and matchbox from Cyrus. He took a long drag, showcasing his experience, and blew three smoke rings up among the trailing steam that Cyrus had made. The sinuous stream moved through all three rings in quick succession, like a garter snake doing hoop tricks, and Alfyn spread his hands in defeat. "I can hit the bad guys with it easy enough, though it don't ever seem to hit that hard. As far as smoke tricks go, blowing rings is kind of the only string to my bow."

"To each his own, then," Cyrus conceded, shrugging. "Second time's the charm, eh Sir Olberic? Bon courage!"

Olberic accepted the pipe and matchbox from Alfyn with a low murmur of assent. He thought he had a better idea of how to pace himself after his disastrous first attempt, and Alfyn was looking at him hopefully. He took a long drag, stilling himself to stifle any coughing, and exhaled again in a long, disorganized stream. He was a first timer, so he didn't know any smoke tricks like Cyrus or Alfyn and he did not try. His smoke joined the crowing cloud over their heads as he passed the pipe and matchbox along to Cyrus.

"How are you feeling?" Cyrus asked, eyeing Olberic eagerly as he raised the pipe to his lips.

"Fine," Olberic replied. "I'm fine. It's... actually rather pleasant. Are you going to ask me for an update after every hit I take?"

"It's fine," Alfyn replied. "He's just curious because he's never had any before. Zeph was the same way; always asking me how I felt because he wasn't sure he could trust his own senses."

Cyrus took a long drag, slow and steady, filling his lungs a little more than he had the first time. He held it in for a good five seconds and then released it. The smoke curled up and back on itself in an aesthetically pleasing spiral pattern that grew for every quarter revolution that it took.

"Is that...?" Alfyn frowned.

"It looks like the pattern on a mollusk shell," Olberic observed. "Nautilus?"

"It is called the golden spiral," Cyrus explained. "It is a logarithmic spiral with a specific growth factor, which is called the golden ratio. It appears in nature in the patterns on mollusk shells, like the ones that Sir Olberic mentioned, and in phyllotactic spirals occurring on certain plants, such as _aloe polyphylla_."

Alfyn snorted. "Ain't that historically been used as a purgative?"

"Don't be crass, Alfyn."

"I'm not!" Alfyn protested as he took another hit on the pipe. "You're just showing off."

"Of course," Cyrus replied, grinning broadly. "I am a show off. That's what we do. What about you, Sir Olberic? Would you like to try a smoke trick? I'd be happy to give you a few pointers."

"A-Aye," Olberic replied, feeling a bit nervous all of a sudden. He thought he knew how to make it work, so he gave it a go... but the smoke came out in a disorganized stream anyway. Alfyn sighed and gave him a 'what can you do' sort of expression and patted his knee sympathetically.

Cyrus reached out, catching the smoke in his hand and redirecting it towards himself, juggling it between his hands. "Hah!" Cyrus snickered, looking rather flushed all of a sudden. "How amusing! I didn't think I could keep this up!"

"Oh, yeah." Alfyn had a knowing grin on his face, now. "He's feeling it pretty hard right now. How about you, Old Bear?"

"I'm enjoying myself," Olberic replied, smiling warmly. He handed the pipe and matchbox off to Alfyn, who blinked in surprise as if the pipe had startled him, leaving no doubt as to his own state of mind. "Here you are, my friend. Since Cyrus is... presently occupied, perhaps you can take your turn."

"Gramercy," Alfyn replied, imitating Olberic's tone with a fierce grin.

**Author's Note:**

> You can't tell me that Alfyn would not be a stoner. His name is Greengrass for fuck's sake.


End file.
